You Can't Run Forever
by barbaricyawp
Summary: Phoebe Kramer "accidentally" gets a job at 221B Baker Street, but she has a past she'd like to keep secret. Takes place after S3, with Mary acting primarily in her wife/mother role.
1. Help Wanted

"Bored!" Suddenly losing his patience with the petty experiment, he threw the beaker against the wall. It shattered instantly, sending shards of glass and urine flying. He stood impassive as the mess accumulated, even ignoring a cut on his cheek. "Boring, stupid, pointless…I'm wasting my time." He regarded the mess as if puzzled about its origin. "Mrs. Hudson!"

There was no reply. He frowned, and called again. "Mrs. Hudson!" No response. Swirling his dressing gown dramatically about him, he went downstairs to his landlady's flat; he was that bored.

Mrs. Hudson was at her kitchen table, a cup of tea suspended halfway between saucer and lips. "Mrs. Hudson?" She started. "Sherlock, dear, I didn't hear you call."

"It's all right. There's a mess upstairs."

She'd known him for years, so she immediately suspected his innocent tone. "Sherlock, you really ought to take up a hobby."

"_People_ are my hobby, Mrs. Hudson. It's hardly my fault people are boring." He gave her a quick once-over: yesterday's blouse, smudged make up, evidence of tears on her cheeks. "What's happened, Mrs. Hudson?"

"What? Oh, nothing's happened, dear."

He rewarded her with his most piercing stare. "Don't lie to me, Mrs. Hudson. You know who I am; it doesn't work."

She laughed, and finally set down her cup. "All right, you've caught me. I'd a letter yesterday from Yorkshire, where my son is?"

He hadn't known she had a son, but he nodded anyway.

"Well, I thought it was from him, but his wife wrote to tell me…he's dead, Sherlock." She covered her face with thin, bony hands. "Philip's dead!"

He took a moment to process this, then moved with the quick agility of a panther: he seated himself next to Mrs. Hudson at the table and put an arm around her. "I'm sorry," he said.

She covered his hand with her own and squeezed it. Her touch was soft, like old leather, well-worn and well-used. She sighed heavily, and he felt the frailty of her shoulders.

"Of course you'll go up north for the funeral."

She was astonished. "Oh Sherlock, I couldn't! Who'd look after you? I'll likely come back to find the building flattened!"

"I wish you'd have a bit of faith in me, Mrs. Hudson," he said drily. "Mary will come."

"No, she won't. Not with a brand-new baby. And you can forget about seeing John, either."

"Molly, then. Or…Geoff."

"Molly's in Sussex for the week. And _Greg_ is working."

Sherlock shook his head firmly. "Don't you worry about me, Mrs. Hudson. I'll be fine. You go. You should go. You will go."

"If you insist," she said hesitantly.

"I do," he said. "I really think you ought to go, Mrs. Hudson. You want to, don't you? And I assume your daughter-in-law will want to see you?"

"Well, to be honest, we've never really gotten on…"

She launched into a lengthy monologue. He patiently let her prattle on as he mentally ran through his options for the duration of her absence. Food wouldn't really be a problem; he'd got to his usual chips place, they always gave him extra. He didn't much bother with clean shirts unless he had a client…he glanced around Mrs. Hudson's kitchen: dirty dishes, mold in the grout…

"Has your hip been bothering you?" he interrupted.

She blinked, but she wasn't really surprised. "A bit. I've been to a doctor and I've course I've got my herbal soothers, but I just can't get around as well as I used to—"

"Right. I'll get you a cab to the station and carry your case out for you. Go pack."

"Sherlock, I really—"

"I can get you a ticket online, book you a room—I know a nice bed and breakfast in York that I know you'll like, the owners are _very_ talkative—two weeks, say?"

"—I really don't—"

"I insist, Mrs. Hudson. Make a little holiday out of it." He realized his error as her face crumpled, and hastily amended: "A little time away from me." He managed a smile.

She patted the hand around her shoulders. "I don't need time away from you, dear."

"Yes you do." He stood abruptly. "Go pack. I'll take care of everything."

She sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "You're a dear, Sherlock."

"If you say so, Mrs. Hudson."

It took longer than he would have liked to get her on her way, but she was finally gone and Sherlock was alone. He seized the opportunity to rummage through her flat, deducing and taking inventory. The place could use a deep cleaning. Mrs. Hudson was a clean person, but evidently her hip had been bothering her a lot lately; crevices were dusty, and the flat smelled faintly of mold.

He called Mary. "Sherlock, it's a lovely gesture, but were you planning on doing it yourself?"

"That's why I called you."

"Oh, Sherlock dear, we can't. John's parents are here and the baby's been a bit colicky—"

He listened patiently and hung up quickly. She sounded distracted. He didn't like it.

He did some research on the Internet and quickly realized he was in over his head. He could figure out the theory of cleaning grout, but the practice was a bit beyond him.

It occurred to him that he could hire someone. If Mrs. Hudson's health was on the decline, it might be good for her to have help anyway. He would pay, or rather Mycroft would.

He placed an advert in a paper (he'd gotten an editor out of a murder charge) and waited patiently in the flat for applicants. He grew bored quickly, and thus was in the middle of watching an eyeball in the microwave when the first one cam upstairs.

He gave her a quick once-over: middle aged, overweight, smoking habit, adulterer—

"Get out."

They all went like that. Many protested his quick dismissal, but he ignored them, and eventually they left. He found a new mold in the refrigerator and was busily studying it for several days. He hadn't eaten nor showered, and his hands were shaking as he took another sample for his microscope.

"You need to eat."

He was deeply disturbed that he hadn't heard her enter, and almost dropped his newly made slide. "I don't eat when I work, digesting slows me down."

"Bullshit," she said. "Have you any pots? I'll whip something up."

"I don't cook," he replied tersely. She rummaged through the grocery bags at her feet and came up with a small saucepan, which she promptly filled with water and set on the stove.

"How about an egg?"

He pursed his lips; clearly he wasn't going to get any work done with this American in the flat. "Get out," he said; his bass voice echoed up and down the stairs.

"Terrifying," she said drily. "Pasta, then?" He noticed she used the British pronunciation.

"I'm not hungry."

"Yes, you are." Before he could reply, she had touched the back of his hand with soft fingers. "You're icy cold, and pale, and I saw your hand trembling on that slide a minute ago. You might not feel hunger, Mr. Holmes, but you need to eat."

"You know my name."

"Naturally. Have I been living under a rock for the past four years?"

"Not that I'm aware of, but I didn't know I'd a reputation in the states."

"You threw my uncle out a window," she returned.

Sherlock frowned, trying to remember… "Ah, yes. Well he broke in and threatened my landlady."

"How very gallant of you."

"Not gallant," he said defensively.

"If you say so, Mr. Holmes. Put that experiment away so we can have lunch."

"I'm not done," he retorted huffily—and suddenly he was a little boy again, begging Mum to let him have just five more minutes with the chemistry set.

"Move it, then. We need that table to eat on."

He ignored this, and carried on. Once she began to set out plates, however, he was forced to shift his microscope to a side counter.

"Not there, the dishwasher's there."

He looked. "So it is." He moved again, and she seemed satisfied.

The pasta was good; he was surprised at how quickly and how much he ate. She had a cup of tea, and watched every bite intently. He avoided her gaze as much as he could; she was making him decidedly uncomfortable.

"Digesting slows me down," he mumbled around a mouthful of fettuccine.

"Good. You've been working too hard."

"What is this sauce?"

"Pesto. Do you like it?"

He gave a noncommittal shrug, and a corner of her mouth quirked into a half-smile.

Once the pot of pasta had been entirely consumed, and he was scraping his plate with his fork, she pushed her tea aside and leaned forward on her elbows. "So what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Make more pasta," he said.

"Later," she said firmly. "All the advert said was that you needed a cleaning lady-cum-companion, whatever that means."

"My landlady's getting on," he said, "I thought she could use some help and company."

"She has you."

"I'm not much help or company. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Will that bother you?"

"Not a bit. I dislike small talk."

"How about the violin?"

"Musicians are sexy."

He disregarded this comment and moved on quickly: "She's away for the week and I thought it might be nice if her flat were thoroughly cleaned while she was gone."

"That's a sweet thought."

"So I've been told."

"I think I'll start with your kitchen."

"That's not part of our arrangement."

"Perhaps not, but frankly I'm troubled by the collection of toes in your vegetable drawer."

"It's for an experiment."

"That's fine. But you ought to keep some food in the house."

"I told you, I don't eat."

She looked pointedly at his plate, which had almost literally been licked clean. He sighed heavily. This girl was getting the best of him, and he disliked it very much. "I'm going to trust your judgment."

"I realize you're a bit of an eccentric," she said. "I'm not asking you change your ways entirely. There just needs to be space in your kitchen for kitchen things as well as…whatever you've got going on."

"Fine." He stood and made for his chair in the living room.

"Where do you think you're going, Mr. Holmes?"

"I need to digest."

"No sir. You're going to help me clean the kitchen."

He whirled around and glared at her. She met his gaze calmly and unflinchingly. He stalked back into the kitchen. "Tell me what to do."

He was rewarded with another half-smile.

The next week was full of work and adjustments. The American, who said her name was Phoebe, bossed him around as if she were his mother. He learned how to clean a toilet, and a shower, and windows. She taught him how to make pasta—it wasn't hard, but he'd deleted the data some time ago—and stocked a single cupboard in his kitchen with canned soup and boxes of pasta. A single shelf in the refrigerator was designated for cheeses, eggs, milk, and fresh vegetables which she promised to restock once a week. She made him eat at least one meal a day. He found that scrubbing for most of the day made him hungry. The coffeemaker in the kitchen was always running, sitting demurely next to his microscope, and he only had to call for tea.

While he slaved away on his own flat, Phoebe was busy downstairs. He wandered in occasionally to check her progress. The smell of mold had vanished, to be replaced by the smell of mint and lemon. The carpets were a shade lighter, the rooms brighter, the hardwood shone.

She took over John's old room on the top floor. By unspoken agreement, they never invaded each other's private space. He vacuumed his bedroom and made his bed. She ironed all of his shirts and made him shower every day.

"You claim to be a high-functioning sociopath; you ought to behave like someone capable of _functioning_ in normal society," she told him when he protested the new hygiene regime.

"But nobody sees me except you!"

"Maybe I don't like the way you smell."

"Maybe I don't like the way _you_ smell," he retorted childishly.

"Sherlock, go get in the shower."

In the evenings, they sat in their chairs in silence. Sometimes he was thinking; sometimes he played the violin; sometimes he watched her read. She was working her way through _Anna Karenina,_ and he liked the way her brow furrowed or smoothed as her dark eyes flicked quickly back and forth across the page. Occasionally the corner of her mouth twitched, or she would chew on her lip or thumbnail. He tried to guess what she was reading about, and checked the pages she'd read when she went upstairs for the night. He was right about half the time.

Occasionally they played cards. It was more to kill time than anything else; he could always tell when she was bluffing. She talked quietly and passionately about climate change and habitat fragmentation. She loaned him a book called _The Song of the Dodo,_ and in the evenings they read together. He enjoyed the book tremendously, especially her neat little notes in the margins.

And so the week passed, quick and quiet and highly enjoyable.

Mrs. Hudson's flat was spotless, and they had only to wait for her arrival. Phoebe was ironing, and Sherlock was playing the violin. After a while, he realized that she was humming a quiet counter-melody to his improvisation. He listened carefully, and played the tune back to her. She hummed something else, and her foot began tapping. He began playing a spirited reel, and she started swaying back and forth at the ironing board. He casually made his way to the laptop and found a track he had recorded the previous week.

She didn't notice the change in music, nor did she notice him set down the violin and approach. He stood patiently next to her until she set the iron down and looked up.

"What is it?"

He wordlessly offered his hand. She examined his face intently, and the corner of her mouth turned up. "I didn't know you danced."

"I love dancing, always have."

The crooked smirk stretched into a full-lipped smile. "That's endearing."

He was saved from having to come up with a reply when she took his hand. The song ended and began again as they waltzed around the room in endless circles. She was a good dancer, matching her movements to his and turning at his slightest touch.

"Have you ever tried swing dance?"

He shook his head.

"I used to do it in college a lot." She listened carefully to the song for a moment. "I think we can do it to this. It's a one-two-three, four-five-six, seven eight." She showed him quickly; he mirrored her, and she nodded vigorously. "That's it. I'll show you some fun spins."

She did, and they were fun. Soon they were both grinning, spinning and swirling around the room, crossing arms, uncrossing—one moment they were back-to-back, the next two paces apart, then together again and spin—

The song began to wind down. "We end on a dip," she said. "Spin me out and then in, and I'll go down—" he did, and was surprised by how easily her body bent over his arm. He could feel the muscles in her back, and in the leg that she wrapped around one of his for support. He whipped her upright and they were face-to-face, both panting and flushed. Her smile was wide and bright.

Applause startled them both, and they leaped apart like guilty children. Mrs. Hudson wiped a tear from her eye. "That was lovely, Sherlock, just lovely! But who's this?"

She leapt forward quickly and offered her hand. "Phoebe Kramer. Sherlock hired me for the week. We cleaned the flat."

"I wanted to surprise you," Sherlock said.

"Well, I certainly am surprised!"

"Go downstairs," Phoebe urged. "Sherlock, why don't you-?"

He offered his arm to Mrs. Hudson. Baffled, she took it, and he led her to her own flat. The door was wide open, and everything was bright and clean.

She stopped in the doorway, mouth agape. "Sherlock, you did all this for me?"

"Yes. I saw you were having a rough time of it, and so I tried to help." He watched her face closely; he wasn't always the best at reading emotions. "Do you like it? Phoebe waxed the floors, and—"

Mrs. Hudson burst into tears. Sherlock awkwardly patted her on the shoulder. Phoebe nudged him from behind, and he guided Mrs. Hudson into her sitting room and settled her on the couch, arm around her shoulders. Phoebe took a chair opposite, sitting straight with her ankles neatly crossed. He avoided looking at her just then.

"It's been so long since anybody's done anything so nice for me—" Mrs. Hudson was saying, dabbing her eyes furiously with a handkerchief. "And you paid for my trip to Yorkshire— Sherlock, I don't know what to say."

"You really ought to tell him exactly what you're feeling," Phoebe suggested. "He's not great at reading people."

Sherlock glared at her. "I am fantastic at reading people. You're using a new conditioner and you trimmed your nails last night."

She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean." She ran her thumb back and forth across her shortened nails as if growing used to them.

"It was really such a sweet gesture, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, kissing his cheek. "Were you planning on keeping her on?"

Sherlock froze. Phoebe took her cue: "He was worried that you're lonely and having a hard time because of your hip and your son, so he hoped that I could help you out and keep you company. If you'll have me, of course."

Mrs. Hudson threw up her hands. "Well, my dear, I don't see why you shouldn't stay. You'll be a great help to both of us, I'm sure."

Phoebe smiled broadly. _That's two, _Sherlock thought. "Shall I make tea? I made cookies—er, biscuits—this morning, and you can tell us about your trip."

"That would be lovely, dear," said Mrs. Hudson. Phoebe sprang to her feet and darted out of the room. "My, she's quick, isn't she?"

Sherlock made a noncommittal humming noise. "So have you two been getting on all right? I'm surprised at you, Sherlock, really I am—she's American! What's she doing here?"

"I never asked," Sherlock said, surprised.

Mrs. Hudson scoffed. "Well, what did you deduce, then?"

He shrugged. "She likes to read, sing, and dance. She's neat, clever, stronger than she looks; untreated scoliosis, broken toe, hasn't had a haircut in months, dislikes tomatoes. She's had a cat—there's still hair in all her sweaters."

"Yes, but why isn't she in the States?"

"I don't know." He suddenly recalled something from their first conversation. "The American who broke in three years ago was her uncle."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "The man you threw onto my bins?"

Sherlock smiled. "Yes, that one."

"Well, we'll try not to hold that against her, shall we?"

"I think not," Sherlock agreed.


	2. Drinking Buddies

Molly tapped her pen against the edge of the clipboard, sighed, and checked her watch. "Late again," she told the corpse on the table. Fortunately, the corpse had no reply.

"Apologies. Traffic was horrendous." He strode into the room, coat flapping, and whipped off his scarf in the way that made Molly go weak at the knees. "What do we have here?"

Molly consulted her clipboard. "The deceased's brother claims that she was choked to death by a violent fiancé, but there are no bruises on the neck and—"

"Right." He unzipped the bag and began his examination. "Okay," Molly said.

"May I?"

Molly was startled by the American accent, and turned to find a girl about her own age extending her hand for the clipboard. She mutely handed it over, and the girl flipped through the pages with the air of someone who knew what she was doing.

"History of heart troubles," she remarked.

"So not strangulation at all," Sherlock replied. He pointed at something. "Look here. If she had suffocated from choking, shouldn't her gums be whiter from lack of oxygen?"

The girl leaned closer, holding her long dark hair out of the way with one hand. "I would think so."

"My thoughts precisely." Sherlock snapped his magnifier shut decisively. "So the brother is framing the fiancé for some reason."

"Are you sure?" Molly asked, surprised.

"Why else would he pin her death on the fiancé?" the girl put in. She turned back to Sherlock. "Wait—what if the death wasn't a coincidence?"

"Brother murdered his sister and pinned it on her fiancé—has to be financial," Sherlock decided.

"Makes sense," she agreed.

"Right." Sherlock wrapped his scarf around his neck again. "I've got to go to the station and check some records—you remember the tests we talked about?"

"I wrote them down, to be sure," the girl replied. "Molly can help me, if she's got the time." She threw a questioning glance in Molly's direction.

Well, I'm very busy," Molly began. Sherlock was looking at her, too. "—but of course I can help," Molly finished. _Dammit! How does he make me do that?_

"You don't have to," the girl repeated.

"I don't mind," Molly said firmly.

"I'll see you at home, then," Sherlock said to the girl, and was gone as quickly as he had come.

The girl turned to Molly. "If you'll just show me where the lab is—"

"I said I'd help you, didn't I?" Molly snapped.

The girl snorted. "You don't owe him anything, you know."

"I know that," Molly said, thoroughly irritated now. "Who are you, anyway?"

"Sorry," the girl backtracked. "I'm Phoebe. I work for Mrs. Hudson—and Sherlock, sometimes. The clot forgets to feed himself or sleep, so I nag him."

"And you're helping him on a case?"

Phoebe shrugged. "He asked me to."

"How long have you worked for him?" Molly asked jealously.

"Maybe a month?"

Molly snorted.

Phoebe shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. "So…can you show me the lab, then?"

"Follow me," Molly said gruffly, and stalked off.

They spent the afternoon together, running tests on some samples Sherlock had collected from somewhere. Phoebe also insisted on testing the dead woman's blood, to see if anything turned up. "Poison's most likely," she explained, "and if we don't find anything, odds are it isn't murder—unless of course Sherlock comes up with some crackpot theory that turns out to be entirely true."

Molly grudgingly gave Phoebe free rein in the lab, once it became evident that the other woman knew what she was doing. Phoebe braided her hair quickly and efficiently, to keep it out of her face. Occasionally she would mumble something, and scribble notes on a legal pad she had produced from somewhere.

"So," Molly said awkwardly after several hours. "How did you end up working for Sherlock?"

Phoebe wasn't listening. "Hm? Oh! I answered an advert in the paper. I was desperate for work and that seemed easy enough."

"I'd hardly call working with Sherlock easy," Molly commented.

"It's not," Phoebe agreed with a laugh. "But I did my research before I went in. I decided that the best way to deal with his shit was to ignore it; sort of bulldoze over him, y'know? It seemed to work. His hackles went up at first, of course, but then I fed him and he calmed down. Just like my cat."

Molly disliked the affection in her voice, and immediately berated herself for being jealous. _It's not your place and you know it, Margaret Hooper,_ she told herself sternly. "You've a cat?" she asked in an effort to change the subject.

"I had to leave him in the States, but yes," Phoebe said. "I miss him terribly; he's my baby." Real emotion clotted her voice for a moment.

"I can't imagine leaving Toby behind," Molly volunteered. "He's like…"

"It sounds pathetic to say, but he's your best friend," Phoebe finished.

"Exactly!" They laughed together. "So what brings you to the U.K.?" Molly asked.

Phoebe shook her head. "Nuh-uh. You asked me one, now it's my turn. Tell me about working in a hospital morgue. Is it depressing?"

Molly shrugged. "Sometimes. For the most part people lived a good life, and they look sort of peaceful when they're all laid out…"

"…genitals exposed…" Phoebe interjected, mimicking Molly's sentimentality.

Molly guffawed, and covered her mouth. "Oh, that wasn't very charming, was it?"

"Neither was what I said," Phoebe remarked.

"True. Yeah, I've worked here for a while now. It was pretty boring until Sherlock started coming in. He wanted to look at a body. I had no idea who he was, but he flashed a police badge at me—"

"You know he steals those."

"—and I got all flustered, and then he started coming in regularly."

"He kinda throws you off, doesn't he?"

Molly was prepared to deny it, but one look at Phoebe's face told her that it wasn't an accusation. "Yeah, he does," she replied softly.

They worked in silence for a while. Phoebe was busily picking apart dirt from a footprint, taking careful note of the composition of said dirt. Molly had seen Sherlock do the same thing, before; it was incredible, how accurate he had been. That had been right before…

"So tell me," Phoebe said brightly. "What's a good place to go drinking around here?"

"Come out with me after work," Molly said on impulse. "I'm meeting some friends at a pub I know. I'll introduce you to everyone."

"Would you? That's so nice. If I have to spend one more night in with Sherlock trying to deduce the contents of my book I'll scream."

"With Sherlock-?"

"I read at night, after dinner, and he just sits there and _watches_ me. I think he's playing some little game with himself, to test how good he is at reading facial expressions. It's creepy."

"I can imagine," Molly agreed sympathetically. _At least he's looking at you. _

When Sherlock returned to the lab, just after six, he was surprised to find it empty. Stacked neatly on the counter—clearly Phoebe's handiwork—were his samples and pages of careful notes. _No poisons I know to test for in victim's blood; eliminating murder unless you know some others?_ A list of toxins followed. On the next page where the contents of the footprint: _fern spores, aluminum foil, red/gray clay..._

Atop the entirety was a note: _Out for drinks with Molly. Don't wait up. –Phoebe _

Sherlock snorted. "Wasn't going to."

He rummaged around until he found the dead woman's blood sample, then went in search of a pipette. He had a few more tricks up his sleeve than Phoebe Kramer did.

(_fluffy extended ending. I wasn't sure how I felt about it, but I'm posting it anyway)_

[It was after two by the time he finished his work and caught a taxi back to Baker Street. All of the lights in their building were out; Mrs. Hudson had probably been asleep for hours, and likely Phoebe was passed out somewhere.

He stretched his long frame on the couch and folded his hands neatly under his chin. Pinpointing the origin of the muddy footprint would require going into his mind palace. He focused intently on doing exactly that. Sometime during his deducing, he drifted into sleep.

-a loud crash awoke him. Dawn light filtered through the curtains. A silhouette could be seen stumbling around the flat, muttering curses to itself. Finally a light was flicked on. She blinked bemusedly at him, then her eyes widened.

"Thought I toll jew not to wait up for me."

"I didn't," Sherlock said defensively. "I was in my mind palace."

She snorted. "Sure you were." Her eyes lost focus for a moment, and she swayed where she stood.

"I take it you had fun with Molly?" Sherlock asked drily, swinging his legs off the couch, standing, and adjusting his cuffs.

"So much fun!" she proclaimed. The first word was drawn out into a hoot—_sooooo. _"You Brits really know how to drink."

"You don't, evidently," he remarked as her knees buckled momentarily.

"Do so," she said crossly. Abruptly her legs admitted defeat, but Sherlock was there to catch her.

"I'm sleepy," she mumbled into his shirt.

"I can see that." He scooped her up like a baby—she hardly weighed anything—and carried her up the stairs. He nudged the door to her room open with his elbow.

The space within was much as he might have expected: books strewn about the floor, empty tea mugs, a low bed piled high with soft pillows and blankets. He gently deposited her onto the last of these, extracting a pillow and blanket from the mess and carefully tucking her in. She scowled and muttered at him that she was fine, but she was asleep before he shut the door on his way out.

His phone beeped on his way downstairs: a text from Molly. Did she get home ok?

He ignored it, but by the time he was in his own bed there was another: I like her. J

Sherlock turned off his phone and went to sleep.


End file.
